


No me olvides, cuore mio.

by pipitass



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6707644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipitass/pseuds/pipitass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once the deal that would take him all the way to China is done, Marco is the first one Pocho has to call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No me olvides, cuore mio.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pepsicokes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepsicokes/gifts).



> A thousand thanks to my wonderful beta...

Pocho hung up the phone with shaking hands, throwing himself onto his couch and letting out a sigh. 

It was through.

The deal that would take him all over to the other side of the world had finally been completed, after months of negotiations and talks with several agents and important executives Pocho should probably know the names of, but didn’t bother learning.

He did nothing for a while, felt as though his nervous system had been numbed and his whole body had been submerged in a tub full of ice. Mind racing, yet thinking of nothing at all, watching the seconds pass by as he wondered what his next move should be.

Perhaps he should text Thiago, he was his captain after all. Or maybe Javier and Ángel, his fellow argentines with whom he could just ignore the language barrier and break into easy and musical Spanish. He always found it hard to communicate in any other language other than his own.

Well, except for Italian, of course.

But speaking in Italian would mean calling one very specific person, and that was a call that Pocho had been dreading as soon as the talks with Hebei Fortune had started. He wondered whether he should just shut off his phone and go to sleep, let them all find out for themselves in the morning and just not bother with explanations, let the media talk about lucrative deals and whatever other reasons they could pull out of thin air.

It wouldn’t be long until the newspapers found out, anyways.

However, memories soon started flooding his brain, of trophies being lifted and celebration speeches in terrible French being laughed at collectively. He thought of training sessions in the morning under the Parisian sun and pranks being exchanged almost every day. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He’d be off to a completely different culture, a completely different world. If he’d thought Paris was hard to adapt to, then he couldn’t even imagine what awaited for him in his future destination. He hadn’t even begun to pack yet, wasn’t even close to leaving in terms of time, and he was already missing Paris and its people.

Staring at his phone for a few more seconds, he unlocked it and pressed the small green icon with a phone on it, the dial staring back at him. He wavered between who he should call first, what he would say and how he would say it, until he found his fingers dialling one of the only numbers he knew by heart.

The incessant ringing of it echoed in his living room as he put it on speaker and waited for him to pick up. It seemed the time would never come, and part of Pocho was relieved. Relieved to not have to explain himself, relieved to not have to break those kind of news to one of the few people he cared so deeply about.

But then, just as the call was about to go into voicemail, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Marco?” It was the only thing that came out of his mouth, almost a ragged whisper, for some reason phrased as a question-  _ as if  _ he wouldn’t recognise that voice.

“Pocho! Hey! Sorry, I was just watering my plants,” there was a pause and Pocho had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from laughing (and quite possible from crying), because fuck- that was just such a Marco thing to say. “What’s up?”

“Not much, not much,” there was an awkward pause as both sides waited for the other to reply, until eventually, Pocho carried on. “Listen, Marco, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He felt himself starting to tremble, felt his voice losing its certainty. That wasn’t how it was meant to be, wasn’t how the whole conversation was meant to start. Not with the words everyone dreaded, not with that tone like he knew he was going to fuck up but there was nothing he could do about it.

There was another long silence, and Pocho could picture Marco leaning against the edge of his balcony where he kept his precious plants, looking out towards the city and licking his lips.

“It’s about the rumours, isn’t it?”

More silence. At that point Pocho wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say. Part of him wanted to say no. Part of him wanted  to make something up, or laugh and say it was just a joke, tell Marco to come over so Pocho could take him out for a walk and some dinner at that pizza place they both loved, the one that was just down the street. He thought about whether there was any chance he could back out of the deal, call his agent and tell him to forget about it, to try and negotiate a renewal with Paris. But he stopped himself from carrying on down that lane of thought. He had his reasons, and he had to be honest with Marco. There was no point in denying the truth, anyways.

“Yes,” his voice came out firmer than he had expected it to. “But I want to talk to you in person.” _ I want to see you _ . The words went unsaid but Marco had always been good at reading between the lines, so it didn't really matter.

“Alright.” There was a certain coldness to Marco’s words, like he was expecting what was to come and wanted to brace himself for it, wanted to avoid burning up and exploding like a million fireworks in the sky, like he usually did. “Come over, we can talk here.”

Marco hung up the phone, didn’t even wait for an extra beat to hear if Pocho wanted to say anything else.

And he did, was left with an  _ I love you _ hanging on his lips.

-

The drive to Marco's felt different than it usually did.

On most days, it was pleasant, calming, serene. Pocho had to drive past several parks until he arrived at a small street with classical buildings, each with their own little balconies and plant pots hanging from the windows. Even on the days when they'd had a small fight or were in a mood, there was still that tiny tingling sensation in his chest as he drove to Marco's house.

But all Pocho could feel was a large amount of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He climbed up the stairs to the 6th floor when he got there, told himself it was to burn off that extra croissant he'd had that morning, but really, it was just to kill time. Shakily, he knocked on the door.

A fresh breeze hit him when Marco opened the door to his apartment. His face was set with an unreadable expression, staring intensely into Pocho's brown eyes with his own bright blue ones.

"Hey," Pocho spoke softly. "Can I come in?"

Marco simply moved aside, allowing Pocho to walk into his flat. Despite the classical look from the outside, Marco's place was extremely modern on the inside. What once felt edgy and avant-garde now felt hostile and cold.

The windows by the living room, as always, were open in full. The curtains were swinging about into the apartment, and the balcony looked inviting, as opposed to the rest of Marco's apartment. Pocho unconsciously moved towards it, stepping out into the balcony and leaning against the railing.

Promptly, Marco stood beside him, mimicking his posture. They both stood there for a while, watching the clouds go by over the small silhouette of the Tour d'Eiffel in the distance.

"Your garden is looking nice," it was the only thing Pocho could think of saying.

A soft smile placed itself on Marco's lips, and a slight blush spread across his cheeks. "Thanks, I've taken good care of it."

Grinning, Pocho asked, "Say, is it true what David told me?"

Finally, Marco turned to look at him, confused. "What?"

"That you named one of your plants after me."

At that Marco released a loud cackle, throwing his head back and letting it slowly die out. "Maybe."

"Really? Which one?"

"I named one after each of my teammates, actually," he turned, pointing to a miniature tree that stood on the edge of the balcony, with a lush set of leaves on it. "That one's-"

"Let me guess, David?"

Marco smiled, "Looks like him, doesn't it?" He then pointed at a potted aloe vera. "That one's Thiago, because, you know, spiky on the outside, soft and squishy on the inside."

Pocho had to laugh at that, it was a good comparison.

"That one over there," he nodded towards a potted orchid. "Is Kevin. Because everyone seems to think it's the most beautiful plant in my balcony."

"Which one's me then?"

A small smile played at Marco's lips. He pointed at a small bonsai that was carefully placed on a stool. "That one. Because it's short and fat."

Laughing, he gave Marco a shove.

"But it's also my favourite plant. A housewarming gift from a friend, had it here in Paris with me since day one."

Pocho stayed silent, slid his hand into Marco's and squeezed it tightly. "Earlier, on the phone, you didn't let me finish."

Marco's eyes lit up, hopeful. "So, they're fake? You're staying?"

He didn't want to shatter Marco's happiness like that. He wasn't ready to watch the light drain from Marco's eyes as he told him the truth, wasn't ready to destroy what he'd fought so hard for. More importantly, he wasn't ready to let Marco  _ go _ .

"I-" He swallowed. "I love you, Marco."

It was almost instantaneous, the way Marco's face fell and his eyes turned from that shiny blue to a darker, troubled shade. He gulped. "Where?"

Pocho sighed, "China. Beijing."

Marco's head shot up at that, releasing his hand. "You're going to China?"

"Yes." He saw how Marco's movements became erratic, the way he looked down at the floor and rapidly moved his eyes, trying to make sense of everything.

"You're kidding. This is just one of your dumb jokes. You're not leaving. You're not. And even if you were, you wouldn't be as stupid as to go to China. You'd go back to Napoli, o-or   Chelsea-"

"Marco." Pocho took Marco's wrists, holding him steady. He was shaking.

But Marco freed himself of Pocho's grasp, pulled back into his apartment, held his hands next to his chest.

There was something odd about the way Marco was looking at him. Something cold, menacing, and bitter, a look that Pocho had never before seen on the younger man's face.

"It's because of the money, isn't it?"

That took Pocho by surprise. He stared at Marco for a few seconds, silently blinking, perplexed. He'd unconsciously walked into the living room as well, and was standing inches from Marco, who seemed to be miles away despite their closeness.

"How much?"

"What?" Pocho could not think, was still processing all that was happening.

"How much are they offering you?"

"Marco that's not-"

"How much, Pocho? How much are they paying you to leave this, to leave real, proper football? How much are they paying you to say goodbye to your career?"

He was shocked, to say the least. He never knew the small Italian had it in him to lash out in that way.

"That's none of your business, Marco."

"It fucking is. You're leaving us, and for what? It's not as if you're going to Barcelona, or Napoli, or some other big-name club where you can be the star. Fuck, it's not even that you're moving back home, because that- that I can understand. You're going to fucking China, and all because of some stupid paycheck."

"Marco, stop." His voice was warning, knowing that he too might soon explode.

"I won't stop, Pocho. Is it really that hard? You told me you were negotiating a renewal. You told me the talks were going well. What difference does a million more or a million less make at this point? Why can't you just stay? They want you here, and you're stabbing everyone in the back for some-"

"Stop!" He yelled, looking at Marco's shocked eyes and frowning. "Just-  _ stop _ ." He was breathing heavily. "I lied to you, ok? I never had any sort of renewal talks. No-one ever approached me about it. They don't want me here anymore, Marco."

"That's not true, they love you, the fans, the staff, even  _ Zlatan- _ "

"Marco, you know as well as I do that that's not enough. I'm surplus to the team, someone to warm a bench, a waste of money."

"But why China, Pocho? Why? You told me Napoli were interested, why not go back there? Why move to the other side of the world?"

"Napoli was never interested, Marco. Believe me, I tried talking to them, tried getting a renewal here, but it's not- it's not easy."

Marco was looking up at him like a lost puppy. "I'm sure there's a way..."

"I'm not 23 anymore, Marco. I'm not on everyone's radar, I'm not the young talent everyone wants to sign. I don't have Europe's top clubs knocking at my doors. Please understand that I had to jump on any deal I could get, and this was, perhaps not ideal, but... It wasn't as bad as it could have been."

Marco stayed silent, looking down at his shoes.

"You know if I could stay here, I wouldn't think about it twice. Even if that meant only playing half the matches I could be playing. But Paris was quick to sign the deal, seemed pleased at the fact that they'd get rid of this old man."

Sniffling, Marco let out a small chuckle. "Fuck them. You're  _ my _ old man." He threw himself into Pocho's arms, hugged the slightly taller man tightly and buried his face in Pocho's chest. The argentine stood there, pressing his lips to the top of Marco's head, eyes shut.

"I love you so much,  _ pitufo _ ."

"And I love you even more,  _ tesoro _ ." He looked up at Pocho, "Maybe I can go to China with you too."

Chuckling, Pocho shook his head. "I wouldn't let you. You've got all of Europe begging for your signature, and the likes of Xavi Hernández praising your talent. I'd never even let you consider it."

“It wouldn’t be half bad. You and me, a nice house in Beijing with ponds and cute gardens for me to take care of. We could go out and find hidden Italian restaurants to eat in, I’m sure there’s some amazing places-“

“Marco.”

“I’m serious. I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t want to be left alone again.”

“Marco, you won’t be alone. You’ve got the guys, our friends, Italy and your family just a short flight away. And such a bright future ahead of you.”

“But I won’t have  _ you _ .”

Pocho stared into his eyes. They were full of uncertainty and sadness. “ _ Sei bellisimo, cuore mio _ . You’ll find someone else in no time.”

Marco looked back at him, dejected. “Does that mean you’re… Is it  _ over _ ?”

“It’d be unfair to you, to have you here, in the city of love, waiting for me and longing for me, sleeping alone. I want you to move on, find someone else. I just want you to be  _ happy _ .”

“I’m only happy with you. I only want you, and nothing you say can change that. I don’t care what you say, but I’m willing to give us a shot. I won’t throw all this away just because there’s a 12 hour flight separating us. It’ll work out, we’ll find a way.”

Smiling sadly, Pocho leaned in, meeting Marco’s soft lips with his own. They did not move, nor make a sound. Simply stood there, hands gripping each other’s coats, pressed impossibly close.

-

A week passed and Pocho felt like he was drowning in a sea of boxes at home. Marco was constantly there, ‘to help’, but in reality, all he did was sit on the floor and play music, stealing Pocho’s shirts and hoodies and shoving them in his bag to take home.

Of course, whenever he wasn’t busy creeping up behind Pocho and peppering kisses on his neck, or walking around in boxers teasingly, or being fucked senseless on Pocho’s bed.

Since the day the argentine had broken the news to him, Marco’s sex drive had seen an overwhelmingly high increase, to the point where he’d want to go for round two even if Pocho was still having trouble getting his breath back.

One night, Pocho had been hovering over him, both of them naked and incredibly aroused. Marco was staring at him with his mouth slightly open, supporting himself on his arms to lean upwards and kiss him.

“Tell me what you want, Marco. Anything. I’ll give it to you.” His eyes were darker than they usually were, a colour reserved for nights like these with Marco. Only for Marco.

“Whatever you want, I just-“ The younger man was out of breath already, panting, waiting for Pocho to give him some sort of relief.

But Pocho wanted to satisfy and fulfill any desire, any fantasy or hidden want that Marco could possibly have. “No. Tell me what you want.” His voice was so firm, so commanding, the words might as well have been spoken through gritted teeth.

Letting himself fall back down on the mattress, Marco spoke out, looking him dead in the eye. “I want you to-” He threw his head back, shut his eyes as he spoke, “To do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know,” he let out an airy breath. “ _ That.” _

“You’re going to have to be a little more-”

“Jesus Christ, Ezequiel. I want you to  _ fuck me _ . I want you to fuck me with your  _ tongue _ .”

So Pocho obediently did as he was told, slid down Marco’s body and parted his legs, eating him out just like  _ that _ , until Marco’s legs were quivering, until he couldn’t hold it together anymore, and nothing but Pocho’s name was coming out of his mouth.

-

The day before Pocho’s departure came in the blink of an eye. He stood at the edge of the pitch he’d had the pleasure to call home for four years, taking in the Parc des Princes and trying not to cry as the crowd sang his name. He laughed and smiled as his teammates threw him in the air, tried to give them a last rush of good vibes before their match, as always.

He wouldn’t be able to watch the match that day, had pressing matters to attend to before leaving. Smiling, he noticed a camera following him around as he left the stadium. He made sure to be as quick as possible on his way to his car, he didn’t want them to catch the tears that were on the verge of falling on camera.

Somehow, as he sat in his car in the middle of the parking lot, he could still hear his name being sung by the fans in his ears. It was the nostalgia hitting him, surely. The fans could not  _ possibly _ still be calling his name.

Later, he’d bite his lip as he watched highlights of the match.

Turned out the Parc des Princes never really stopped singing.

-

It was 1am when Pocho arrived back at his apartment.

He’d finished sorting out everything that needed to be sorted- papers, getting his stuff shipped to China, last minute talks with his agent- and had decided to take a short drive through Paris, which ended up lasting a couple of hours.

He was ready to just get home and crash in his bed, one of the few things he wouldn’t be taking to China, but was instead met by a sleepy Italian sitting at his door.

Marco stood up in record speed once Pocho appeared, looked at him with eyes that said everything from ‘ _ I’m sorry _ ’ to ‘ _ I love you _ ’.

“Marco? What are you doing here?”

The young Italian shrugged. “Do I really need a reason?”

Opening the door to his apartment, they both walked inside. “No, but you could have told me you were here. I was just driving around. You wouldn’t have had to wait outside like that.”

“I figured you’d need your space. You know, say goodbye to the city and all.” He gave Pocho a sleepy grin, “Plus, isn’t it romantic of me to wait at your door ‘til 1am? You know it is.”

Pocho laughed at that. “Of course it is.” Shrugging off his jacket, he cocked his head towards his balcony. “Want to sit outside for a while?”

All their tiredness seemed to wash away in that moment. It was going to be their last night together, at least for a while. Marco didn’t even comment, just walked outside and sat on the long rocking chair, waiting for Pocho to follow suit.

After a while in silence, Marco spoke up. “I still can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“I know.” They were both staring ahead, the city lights shining bright around them.

“It just- It doesn’t feel  _ real _ .”

Pocho simply linked their fingers together, squeezing his hand.

No more words were exchanged that night, just both of them staring at the Parisian night sky, in Pocho’s case, for the last time in a long time.

Marco fell asleep after a while on Pocho’s shoulder, and he spent a few more minutes sitting in silence and watching the cars go by on the streets.

When he started to feel quite drowsy himself, he scooped Marco up, bridal style, and gave the city one last look at night.

_ Au revoir, Paris _ .

-

When the time to really say goodbye came, Marco was a crying mess.

They’d both woken up quite early, despite the fact that Pocho had to be at the airport at 1pm. Marco couldn’t go with him, had to go to afternoon training. They spent their morning mostly in silence, kissing and Pocho whispering sweet nothings into Marco’s ear, words of comfort and promises he’d try his hardest to keep.

His agent had scheduled a driver to come pick him up, and when said driver called him to tell him that he’d be there in 5 minutes, the reality of the situation finally hit the both of them in the fullest.

“I love you  _ so fucking much _ .” They were standing in front of the door, Marco with his face buried in Pocho’s chest and crying into his jacket. “ _ Non posso vivere senza di te _ . Please don’t go.”

Pocho simply hugged him tighter and tried not to cry. It was futile, of course, the tears were impossible to keep in. “I’ll be here to visit in no time, Marco. I promise.”

Sniffling, Marco shook his head. “Don’t go.”

As soon as the words left Marco’s lips, the phone in Pocho’s pocket started ringing.

“Hello?” Pocho tried to keep his voice steady. “Ok. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He hung up and looked at Marco, who looked like he was slowly dying on the inside. “I need to go.” Pocho whispered.

Nodding, Marco sniffled. “I know.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “I miss you already.”

Pocho leaned in then, planting a firm kiss to Marco’s lips. They stayed there for a few seconds that felt like eternity, for none of them wanted to pull away, knowing it was the last kiss they’d share for a while.

Surprisingly, Marco was the first to pull away. “Text me when you get there, yeah?”

Pocho smiled, “Of course I will.” He bit his lip. “And, Marco?  _ Sei l’unico per me _ . Don’t forget that.”

With that, he turned around, and left.

-

Marco spent the rest of the morning pining in Pocho’s old apartment. When he finally had to leave, he took one last look around it, before closing the door and leaving the key beneath the doormat, where Pocho had told him to so his agent could find it.

Later that night as he scrolled through Instagram, he felt tempted to throw his phone across the room when he saw Pocho’s post.

It’d been less than 24 hours since he’d left, and he already felt like part of him was dying.

-

The months passed and Marco slowly got used to Pocho’s absence.

They skyped almost everyday, Marco would tell Pocho about how the team was doing and Pocho would tell Marco about his new life in Beijing.

One day, as they skyped, Pocho seemed to remember something.

“How are the plants doing?”

Marco laughed, “Good. Pocho the bonsai is getting fatter. Probably eating too many noodles.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” They laughed. “I wanted to show you something.”

The camera moved around as Pocho stood up and walked to what seemed to be the kitchen. Then, as he set his laptop down, Marco could see a large fish bowl with a single blue fish swimming in it.

“You see, I’m not really a plant kind of guy,” Marco started smiling as he could see where Pocho was going. “But, I do like fish. And this cool guy right here just so happens to be a beta fish, or a fighter fish. He’s nice and calm but place him in front of another beta and he’ll go berserk.” He chuckled. “Kind of reminded me of you.”

“Shut up,” Marco laughed.

“Plus, he’s the exact same colour as your eyes. Naturally I had to call him Marco.”

“Well, in that case, I’d say Marco is a beautiful fish.”

“You know he is.” Pocho smiled.

“I want to meet Marco.” He said, tentatively.

“Soon you will,  _ pitufo _ . I promise.”

Marco simply closed his eyes and added that to the list of promises Pocho had made.

-

_ Ezequiel Lavezzi: Buongiorno, cuore mio! _

_ Ezequiel Lavezzi: Image _

_ Ezequiel Lavezzi: See you in two months, amore :)  _

Marco woke up and practically jumped out of bed in pure glee at the sight. Attached was a picture of an online plane ticket, from Beijing to Paris, which was set to leave in two months. He was so happy he forgot to reply straight away.

Instead, Marco simply walked out into his balcony, snapping a picture of his bonsai and posting it to his Instagram with a simple green heart emoji as his caption.

 

It obviously came to him as no surprise, when a few minutes later, Pocho posted a picture of his fish, a bright blue heart resting underneath it. 

 

-

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and hope you enjoyed!


End file.
